Flatlined Inhibition
by Simple.Yet.Difficult
Summary: Compilation of my spontaneous and occasionally desultory one-shots about everyone's favourite superpower pairing-USUK. Up now: An Atypical World Conference. The two nations finally realise what they want...after releasing sexual tensions.
1. Seared Memories

**Hello there. Firstly, I'd like to apologise for my Alex Rider subscribers who don't know what the hell Hetalia is, and if you'd like to leave, I won't stop you. I'm new to this fandom, and so I've decided on a collection of drabbles to get me going. I can't guarantee that I'll be able to finish the rest of my stories, but I'll try. As for this, well it's almost impossible for this to be finished, considering that it's a collection of drabbles that'll probably be written in an utmost random fashion, completely dependent on thought-provoking prompts (this is most definitely ****_not _****a hint, by the way), but I'll try to update as consistently as I can. As for now, enjoy the chapter!**

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**Chapter 1**

Sometimes, when he was alone, he would think back to the time when America was his. When Alfred was his baby brother, his blue eyes staring into green, when blue was filled with hope, curiosity and kindness. Until blue turned into the brightest, hottest flames of rebellion. Blue clashed with green, and it grew with power by day, until green could not hold out any longer and was lost in the sea-blue depths of victory. A victory that was not his.

_"It's...it's not fair..."_

He missed the old America, and could never have imagined what he would become when he was older. America, the hamburger-devouring, egotistical, hero-impersonating and drama-seeking man that filled his vision in the day and his thoughts at night. No, this was not the America he knew and loved before. This was a different man. A different America.

_"What happened to you?"_

England had been in a lot of fights while procuring his colonies, and many battles when he was losing them. He would say he was experienced; hardened to the point where he felt nothing but the adrenaline that came with the spillage of blood. It saddened him to say, therefore, that he could never forget that last fight in the rain; the last showdown that cost him his entire world. Not now, not ever. On that day, his little brother had shed his innocence, and in its place, radical ideas of independence. On that day, hatred, fatigue, guilt and sadness bled from both their wounds, mixing in the rain and draining into the earth, forever encased in the soil of their consciousness, the aches still ingrained in their memories. On that day, he lost Alfred.

_"I remember when you were great."_

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**Short, yes, but hopefully good enough to be reviewed. Will be updating soon. Thanks for reading!**


	2. An Atypical World Conference

**Hi! This was written as a birthday present for a friend :) Enjoy!**

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He knew this feeling wasn't right. England was his _older_ _brother! _Albeit estranged, and they loved to quarrel, but he remembered the times when he was a little boy and England was the only person he looked up to. They had family ties.

So why was he feeling like this? His heart fluttered every time England said something in his silky, smooth, sexy British accent- wait, what?_ No! _He absolutely refused to acknowledge the fact that he might be falling for Arthur...or might have already fallen.

Groaning in frustration (nothing sexual!) and abject misery, he dragged his feet to the conference room where they were to hold their next meeting. As usual, the Englishman was there early. But there was no one else. It was just them. America gulped, suppressing a blush.

"Yo England!" he said cheerily, masking his desperate emotions.

"Good day America," England replied. Wow, he must be in a good mood today.

To prevent from catapulting himself at England and snuggling against him, America started stuffing his face with the absurdly big pile of hamburgers magically conjured out of nowhere. England sighed in exasperation and went back to read a cookbook that he had brought along. Sneaking glances at the Brit, America wasted no time at all thinking about a new plan that was sure to make his name as a hero known to everyone. Finally, France entered the room, and started to provoke England and his cookbook. He couldn't resist a soft smile. England looked so handsome when he was agitated...no. No, no, no, get out of my damn head!

Soon, the other nations arrived, and the conference went on with its usual unproductive, chaotic manner. France was seducing a fear-stricken China, who was being hugged by Russia. The Nordics shocked everyone by making an appearance, trying to calm everyone down, but in a few minutes they gave up and joined in the 'fun'. Denmark was poking Norway, who was trying to talk to his brother, punctuating his word with smacks on Denmark's head with a frying pan. Sweden had pulled Finland to the side, glaring at England, who was currently shaking in his boots. (Well, it wasn't Sweden's fault. England looks like a pedo bear.) Laughing to himself at the mental image of England in a bear suit, he shook his head embarrassedly and walked over to save England.

"Yo Sweden!" he grinned, his mouth wide, flashing pearly white teeth. The only answer he got was a grunt and in a swift movement, the tall Swede had scooped up a blushing Finland and walked over to the other end of the room in a few short strides. He fussed over the tiny nation, straightening his clothes and asking him if he felt violated by England. America turned to face the pale Brit.

"Remind me never to talk to Finland again."

"I won't have to remind you, man! Look at how scared you are!" America teased, clapping a hand on his back. England glared, moving away.

"I...I wasn't _scared_, I was just surprised, that's all!" he yelled, crossing his arms defensively.

"Yeah right! If I hadn't come over to save you like a hero, you would've passed out!"

"I was perfectly fine!"

"No you weren't!"

It felt good to be able to talk to England without setting his cheeks on fire, but sadly it was only during shouting matches. He desperately wanted to reach out to touch his blonde hair, which shone in the light when he waved his arms about in a frenzy, trying to defend his manly pride. But he knew he couldn't. What else would England feel about him besides the current anger? Disgust? Fear? Apathy? No, it was best if he didn't think about it and just continued with the conference as usual: feigning sexual indifference and be a hero.

Yet...he knew he would have to confess soon. It was driving him crazy. Days without England felt like he was sentenced to exile in the Bermuda Triangle; days with him made his heart ache for his beautiful crush, knowing that they'll never be together, that their lips would never meet, that their hearts would never connect in the way he so desperately wanted them to. Was confessing and getting rejected worth it? He honestly didn't know.

"America? America!"

America was snapped out of his reverie with a slap to the face. He looked at England, eyes wide with pain and hurt. He brought a hand to his stinging cheek.

"What...what was that for?"

"For ignoring me! And basically being a bloody annoying bastard! Honestly, I swear, sometimes I don't know why I'm still friends with you..."

He felt as if his whole world could shatter. England didn't want to be friends with him. Much less..._boyfriends_. He just wanted a chance to break down and confess, to pull the other into an embrace and never let go, but before any of that, he just got a slap on the face. He just stared into the green eyes of an increasingly worried England, hand still plastered on his cheek, eyes slowly filling with tears.

"...America?" England asked uncertainly, looking around. China had long since been dragged away by Russia, France hot on their heels. Norway and Denmark had disappeared to who-knows-where, while Iceland had followed Sweden and Finland outside, claiming that they were going to go crazy if they were exposed to one more second of the chaos inside. So they were alone.

"...England. Why would you do this to me?" America asked quietly, bringing his hand down and clenching it into a fist.

"America? What do you mean?"

"This!" America yelled, gesturing wildly to his cheek, before bringing a hand to his heart, "...and this."

Not comprehending, England just stared blankly at him. America shot a hand out to grab the other nation's shirt, eliciting a yelp from the smaller nation. Blue eyes glared fiercely into scared green ones.

"What's gotten into you?"

"I don't know! And I don't care! I'm sick and tired of waiting. I don't want to be hesitant! I'm the goddamned hero!"

And with that, he smashed his lips against a very, very shocked England's. America pulled away after a few seconds, a searing blush on both of their cheeks.

"You said that you didn't want to be friends with me."

"I never said that..." England muttered weakly, but America ignored him.

"And I don't want to be friends with you too. I want to be something _more_," he finished, eyes challenging England to refuse.

"Well?"

England looked from America's flashing eyes to his lips, to his hips, and back again. Placing a hand on each side of his hips, England closed the distance once again with a chaste kiss. Overjoyed, America immediately kissed back, closing his eyes and revelling in the sensation he'd spent years dreaming about. It was definitely better in real life.

"Got your answer now?" England gasped when they parted for oxygen.

"Mhmm," America said mindlessly, hugging him tightly. He traced small circles on his back, smiling when he felt the body shudder with pleasure.

"I never knew you felt that way about me, America. You could've just said so earlier. Then I wouldn't have picked fights with you just to get your attention."

America only laughed, pulling him even closer. "I never knew you felt that way, either."

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_They knew this feeling wasn't right, but how could something that made them so happy could possibly be wrong? _

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**Hope you like it! Reviews are appreciated :)**


	3. Suit Pursuits

**Hey guys, this is a third one-shot! Again, for a friend. It's nice to be consistent in updates, although I'll probably take a little longer for the next one. Enjoy!**

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"...America?"

"Yeah?"

"Uh..." England said, fidgeting madly. America frowned. Arthur was rarely this unconfident about himself. The know-it-all bastard always had something to say. Direct, sometimes blunt, but never hesitant.

"Spit it out already," he said a little impatiently, hands on his hips.

"I...need your help," the other said, looking away, a faint embarrassed blush tinting his cheeks. Ah. So that was what it was. England had this annoying tendency to cling on to his pride, thus making an honest, humble request for help seem like a command for him to cut off his limbs and swim in shark-infested, salt-saturated waters.

America felt like pitying him- heroes had to be kind, after all- and quickly agreed. "What do you need help with?"

"France invited me to dinner, and I couldn't say no," England replied, wrinkling his nose at the sexually-dubious nation's name, "and I need your help to pick a suit." America scowled a little. He was never comfortable when England and France interacted. Everyone knew France harboured a little (sexual) crush on his 'frenemy'.

"Why go through all the trouble when you don't even _like_ that dude? And since when did you ask _me_ for advice on fashion?"

"I just have too many bloody suits to choose from! And what's wrong with spending some time with me!" England yelled, face heating up.

"Al-alright, but promise me you'll call me if he tries anything on you," America said sternly, following England back to his house. (They had been attending a conference, and thankfully London was hosting this time.) England rolled his eyes.

"I'd run like hell from his place; I don't need to call you," he scoffed, eyes softening when he caught a sad look on America's face.

"...Fine," he muttered, unlocking the door to his house. America brightened up, skipping into the mansion and coming face-to-face with the foyer that he knew too well. Memories of living there came rushing back, and pangs of guilt and longing gnawed at his heart. He shook his head and accompanied England up the familiar white marble steps to his room, where a gigantic closet filled to the top with suits of every kind. To call Britain a fashionista was a huge blow to his British pride, but there was simply no other substitute.

"Let's get cracking."

"There!" America grinned proudly, receiving a disbelieving glare in return.

"There is no way in hell I'd be seen in _that _ludicrous combination," the Englishman sniffed, offended at the mere possibility that the outfit chosen for him could actually be worn without people falling flat on their faces laughing. America pouted.

"This is the forty-ninth time you've rejected me and my awesome eye for fashion."

"That's because your 'awesome eye for fashion' is imaginary. The chances of it existing is impossible."

"Well, thank you," America snapped, shoving the suit at him. He dug through the clothes for another possible outfit, muttering under his breath about fussy, nit-picking perfectionists. His fingers brushed against rough fabric, unlike the smooth material England's modern suits were made of. His curiosity piqued, he lightly pulled on the cloth to inspect it. He froze, eyes widening.

"Why'd you stop? Get a move on, you git," England said, poking his back.

No answer. England's monstrously thick eyebrows furrowed, making a bushy unibrow. "What's wrong?"

America pulled away from the closet slowly, a uniform in each hand. One was British, the other American. England's eyes widened as the colours-faded, but fresh in his memory- swirled in his mind. The rain, the wounds, the hurt. He clenched his fists, body visibly shaking.

"Why do you still keep these?" America's voice was quiet and deadly, with just a touch of...sadness? Grief? England's pounding head couldn't process his words, and so he stumbled to his bed and planted himself on the foot of it, with America following him. They sat side-by-side, staring at the now neglected uniforms lying on the ground. A few minutes had passed before England spoke.

"I...I wanted...I couldn't bear to throw them away."

"Why?"

"They're a reminder. A reminder of what happened. Of fate's brutality. Of... what could never be."

America's mouth clamped shut, his eyes growing blurry by the second. No, he wouldn't cry. He wouldn't regret fighting his brother for his freedom. His independence. He promised himself he wouldn't, but if he looked at the quiet grief on England's face for a moment longer, he just might.

"It's stupid."

"What?"

"I said, it's bloody stupid," England said, wiping his eyes with the heel of his hand, "I shouldn't...I shouldn't have kept them." America looked up in surprise when he realised Arthur was crying. He didn't like it.

With a swift motion, America shifted his body to face England's, and wiped at a tear streak that connected his neck and deep, darkened green eyes. England's head jerked up at the sudden contact, and he found himself staring into a pair of equally sad blue eyes. The fierce, determined fire that burned within them was momentarily extinguished with pooling tears.

"I'm sorry," he whispered, stroking his cheek.

"America..."

"I'm...I'm really sorry for causing you pain, Arthur."

England stiffened at the use of his human name. No one used his name unless it was a severe matter. And he didn't doubt the seriousness of this moment.

"No. You...you did what was right. You fought for your freedom."

"Yes. I did. And broke you heart in the process," America replied softly, enveloping the smaller-built man in a tight hug.

"I'm so sorry, Arthur. I know what I did was right, but I could've...I could've _lessened the pain_, I could've just asked you nicely...I don't know what I was thinking..." America babbled, his voice cracking.

"I'm so _sorry_..."

He was shushed with a quick finger to the lips.

"Don't say anything else, Alfred," England whispered, nudging America's arms, pleading silently for them to lessen the grip on his body. When the arms slid away, he caught them again, and gently pulled. The distance between them decreased, and they found themselves in such close proximity, they could touch each other's foreheads with their own if they leaned in. But they didn't. This was enough.

"Don't you dare say you regret what you did," England said firmly. "If not, I'd wage a war on you again to make you see sense."

That sentence left America speechless, but England wasn't done.

"You rebelled. You fought. You hurt me in ways I never could have imagined or comprehended, but in the end you won. You got your independence, your _freedom_, and you went on to become the superpower of the world. Don't say you regretted it. I certainly don't."

"You don't? You don't hate me for what I did?"

"No. I could never hate you. I dislike you. I'm annoyed by you. But I could never truly hate you."

"...Why?" The word came out shaky, and England could feel the other's hot breath on his face. America's eyes were comically wide, as if he couldn't believe what he just heard.

"I could never, can never and will never be able to hate you, because I love you," England smiled weakly. America's breath hitched.

"I couldn't believe that you could betray me, so utterly destroy me I never thought I could get back up again, but then I saw you grow into the wonderful man I see before me. I was proud of you; proud that I raised you well. And in the past few decades, I realised that I had feelings for you. I fell in love. I'm in love with my little brother, and I'm proud of it," England grinned triumphantly, eyes both sad and relieved that his secret was finally out.

America felt like the wind had been knocked out of him. Overwhelmed with shock, he just stared at England for a few seconds, before finally closing the distance between them and delivered a rough, desperate kiss on the lips of his admirer.

"You bastard. You stupid bastard."

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**Yup. I'm sorry if there are some mistakes that went unnoticed. Hope you like it, and please review! :) Thank you~**

_if not Sweden will come after you_


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